


Set The World Aflame

by KingOfDemons



Series: Burning Desires [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Battle of Hogwarts, Deviates From Canon, Explicit Sexual Content, Forest Sex, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 23:38:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18398687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingOfDemons/pseuds/KingOfDemons
Summary: Harry takes too long to show up in the forest and Voldemort is alone when he shows up. Alone, truly alone for the first time, they find themselves dancing to a different sort of tune than usual.(Alt, the smutty plotless one shot featuring Voldemort's war kink and Harry's really bad decisions.)[Former Title: Your Poison Kiss]





	Set The World Aflame

**Author's Note:**

> Aka, I'm trying to write something with a plot and chapters but I have no skills beyond erotica one-shots with no more plot than an actual pornographic video.
> 
> Seriously... Writing is hard and I have no clue how you magnificent people do it. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but my ideas. Harry Potter and all characters and locations in the Harry Potter saga are owned by JK Rowling and relevant associates. Jk Rowling would probably disapprove of this story very much because she is a no-funner who doesn't like Harrymort despite the sixth books working title "Harry Potter is a bi disaster with a crush on Tom Riddle."

* * *

**_Set The World Aflame_ **

**_King Of Demons_ **

_**\--** _

Harry runs as fast as his feet will carry him, the ghosts of his godfather and parents following at his heels, a vaguely comforting support right up until he drops the stone to the ground. The death eaters wage war on Hogwarts beyond the trees, too late to prevent the carnage, but he still has tome to save everyone. He steps out into the clearing.

"Harry Potter." Voldemort speaks in a soft voice. "Come to die."

Yes. No. He doesn't want to die. Here they stand, alone in the woods, and Harry fears his approaching death. "Call them back." He yells. "I'm here."

"You were late." Voldemort circles him like a predator.

"Your Horcruxes are all dead. All but one." He relishes the way Voldemort curls his hands into fists at his side, anger on his face. "Call the death eaters back and I'll give you the last one. You can walk away."

Voldemort chuckles. "You think you can threaten me?" He grabs Harry by the chin and forces his head up. "All of this could have been avoided if you had only shown up on time. This is your punishment."

Harry kicks out at Voldemort's shin and they fall together, unbalanced and disoriented. Harry lands on his back. Voldemort lands on top of him, between his legs, hands up by his head. The position is risque and suggestive. They both stare at each other, Harry turning red as a strawberry, Voldemort unreadable. Neither speaks, niether moves, as if not wishing to break the spell they are under.

Why isn't he moving? The look in Voldemort's eyes is no longer ire. It's heavy, hot, and so wrong. Harry is aware of the lust that shoots through him at that look. It's sick. How can he feel lust for the man who ruined his life? How can he desire a man who will kill him. This isn't supposed to be happening. Where is the anger? Where is the malice? He should be dead already, not lying still and silent beneath his nemesis with his arms laying limp by his head. He should be fighting.

Voldemort lifts one hand in a deliberate manor, fingers trailing down one of Harry's arm feathers light. His fingers brush against his throat in a mockery of strangulation that leaves him just as breathless for a different reason, a forbidden reason. He can't, they can't. There are so many reasons this is a horrible idea. There is a war going on right now because of them. They are enemies. Voldemort killed his parents. Harry is a virgin in all ways that count and he shouldn't even be thinking of giving it to the murderous psychopath who is literally trying to kill him. People are literally dying just beyond the forest. Yet nothing seems a good enough reason to shove the dark lord away.

Voldemort trails a soft finger across his lips in a soft delicate motion, and Harry helplessly leans into the touch, tilting his head back. It's been so long. He hasn't been desired since Cedric, not even Cho or Ginny touched him in such a gentle but desirable way. Voldemort growls, his hand wraps soft and yielding around his throat, and he leans down to press their mouths together in a scorching kiss. Harry gasps. He wraps his arm around the dark lord's neck, his other hand trapped as the dark lord grabs his hand and pins it over his head.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

And yet, so very right. The dark lord fits against him like a puzzle piece. His body is a heavy weight, pressing him down into the ferns and forest floor in a way that is both tantalizing and terrifying all at once. He can feel himself getting hard as the dark lord devours his mouth. Voldemort leans back, pulling Harry into a sitting position, and then he pulls the heavy black robes off in a swift motion, leaving him in nothing but trousers a black dress shirt, the man for some reason always barefoot. He sets the robe on the ground behind Harry, and he gets the implication fast, shuffling back so he is sitting on the robe. He is pushed back once more, this time so Voldemort can bite and suck at his throat, drawing quiet breathy moans from him as his hands grasp the dark lord's shirt.

"Have you done this before?" Voldemort questions as he pulls Harry's shirt off and starts to unbutton his pants.

"Once." The dark lord's hands tighten around the fabric, possessive, jealous. "But nothing beyond umm.. hands and mouth."

"No one has taken you before?" He pulls Harry's trousers down and tosses them to the side, fingers skating against his boxers teasingly.

Harry shakes his head. He only had one night with Cedric, in the prefect bathroom, and it wasn't the other champion he'd been thinking of. Harry had imagined sixteen year old Tom Riddle that night, to his great horror and shame, as he moaned under the skilled touch of the older champion. He felt too guilty to ever attempt to sleep with Cedric again, guilty for imagining it, guilty for saying a forbidden name as he came, and even guiltier after his death.

In his sixth year he'd touched himself to thoughts of Tom Riddle, young and handsome, as Dumbledore showed him memories. Every touch had been a dangerous thrill, the idea that somewhere else Voldemort would feel that pleasure and know... know that Harry was wrapping his fingers around his cock to thoughts of being held down and fucked by a younger less murderous version of himself.

It only happened a few times, each time he felt sick, disgusted by his weakness. Disgusted by his pitiful crush. 

"Good." The praising tone of Voldemort's voice pulls him out of his memories and thoughts. "That means you are all mine."

"Mine to kill." A hand squeezes his throat briefly, tightly, terrifying.

"Mine to kiss." Voldemort leans down to kiss him, a deep bruising kiss that leaves him breathless and panting.

"Mine to _fuck_." Harry moans at the perverse dangerous words.

This is wrong. This is so wrong. Why isn't he running? He should run, but there is a part of him that has desired this for so long. He needs to know how accurate his imaginings were. He needs to know what the dark lord looks like as he comes.

Merlin he is so fucked up.

" _My chosen one. All mi_ ne." He hisses.

"How come you still have so much clothing?" He asks instead of escaping like he should. Instead of killing Voldemort and running like he should.

Voldemort chuckles dark and hotly against his lips. "So eager to be claimed." He pulls Harry's boxers off, leaving him bared to the empty forest, in contrast to the still fully dressed dark lord. "Turn over."

Harry does, moving so he is on his hands and knees. He feels foolish but he dares not look back to the dark lord. He isn't sure what he fears more. Is he afraid to prove this wonderful horrible moment a reality, or is he afraid to see if the dark lord no longer finds his dirty malnourished and scarred body desirable. There is a shuffling sound and an appreciative hum, and then Voldemort presses up against his back, completely bared, and Harry helplessly arches into him, into the warmth of his body. Voldemort grinds against him drawing out breathy moans from both of them.

Voldemort slips his fingers into Harry's mouth and he coats them with saliva. He moves back and Harry bemoans the shift before the spit slicked fingers are pushing in him; one, then two, stretching and opening him up for the dark lord's cock. He should have known Voldemort wouldn't be the foreplay type. It's uncomfortable at first, a new feeling, but his fingers brush against a spot inside him, curling maddeningly, so Harry feels his nerves alight with pleasure.

"If you could see yourself..." Voldemort kisses his shoulder blades. "Stunning."

More, more, more. The word is a mantra in his mind, but years of living in an abusive environment only to find himself in a shared dorm room has taught Harry to be near silent in his pursuit of pleasure. How long has he longed for this? Twelve years old with a diary in his hands, dreaming of hands and lips despite not really understanding desire, gasping the name of an older boy with no thought of who he was to become? Have they always been destined to end here?

Voldemort removes his fingers and Harry barely has any time to bemoan the loss before the blunt head of his prick is pressed against him. His hands grip the robes beneath him so tight his knuckles become white. Oh god, it's really happening. He's going to let Voldemort fuck him. He's going to whore himself out to the dark lord, the murderer of his parents and countless others while hundreds of other students and teachers fight on the battlefield in his honor. This is bad. Wrong.

Voldemort presses into him, unrelenting but slow, the slide of his cock stretching him open as he buries himself deep, holding himself flush against Harry. He moans at the stretch and burn, not pain, but not pleasant. Voldemort is big, taller than him so it makes sense he is bigger, but the sensation is one that leaves him desperate.

"You'll be the death of me." He gasps against Harry's throat. It sounds like he's saying I love you. Too soon. Too much. Why? Why? Why?

"And you'll be the death of me." He responds. It sounds like a promise, a whisper of feelings returned. Too much. Please. Do something. Anything.

" _More_." He begs. It takes a moment to recognize the parseltongue.

Voldemort pulls him so that he's kneeling, back to his chest, as if on display for those at battle beyond the trees. " _Look how the world burns for you, precious thing_." He hisses. He pulls back only to thrust back in hard enough to draw a startled moan out of Harry. There is a sting on the edge of pain. He reaches back and grabs hold of Voldemort's thigh. " _They'll die for you. They will die for us_."

Every word is punctuated by an unforgiving thrust. Harry chokes back a sob but doesn't try to flee, not even as he watches the battle blaze in the distance. Death and screams in the distance. He can imagine the blood and carnage as if he were there. Voldemort's hand wraps around his throat again, no pressure or attempts to strangle him, the touch serving more to keep his gaze steady on the fighting and flames. His other hand drops to stroke Harry. He won't last long like this. Harry reaches back to place his hand on the back of Voldemort's neck, almost mirroring the hand on his. He imagines for a moment what it would be like if Voldemort had hair. He'd pull him in for a kiss. He imagines digging his nails into the white of Voldemort's back and painting it red with blood. With his other hand he grips the dark lord's wrist, the hand on his throat tightening just barely while he slams in and out, giving him endless pleasure, unrepentant in his attempts to bring Harry to the point of seeing stars.

" _Please_." He gasps in between panting and small desperate moans, English broken by snake tongue. "I _can't_. I won't last. _Please._ "

Voldemort chuckles and bites his shoulder harshly, slamming in deep and unrelenting. "Then don't." He hisses. " _The world lays at your feet Harry Potter. Just fear me and love me, and I'll give you the world_."

At those words, the stimulation is too much, and Harry comes with a silent shout, Voldemort fucking him through his orgasm until he's on the edge of overestimated pleasure pain. The dark lord pulls out of him gently and Harry helplessly leans into him,  desperate for affectionate touch, lips on his sweat slick skin. Voldemort hums a light laugh, laying him down against the robes and leaning over him. He's still hard, his prick curved up on display, red tipped and leaking. Harry's cock gives a feeble twitch and he knows he'll be hard again soon.

He gulps. Harry hooks his legs around the dark lord and flips them over, and the dark lord grips his hips tight enough to bruise. "Let me take care of you." Harry offers, already shifting down to settle between his legs.

"You don't have to." His eyes burn with lust and misplaced intimacy.

"I want to." Harry breathes.

This is familiar territory. Not his first blow job, though he has only done this once on someone far more average sized. He sets himself to the task with a unique perverse pleasure in the way Voldemort curls his hands in his hair as he tries desperately to stop himself from holding Harry's head in place and fucking his mouth. Harry is grateful for the restraint and rewards the dark lord with a particularly deep suck, his throat working around the heavy shaft painfully as Voldemort honest to Merlin whimpers, hand tightening in his hair in a way that leaves him certain some was pulled out. His cock is fully hard by now, having been licking and sucking on him for several long minutes, too long, not long enough. His jaw is starting to hurt, so he is even more grateful when Voldemort growls and pulls him up until he is in his lap.

"You are vicious, _my precious thing_." He says before pulling Harry in for a desperate kiss. "So perfect for me, my chosen one. _I want you to ride me_."

Harry nods, determined, needy. He sits up and Voldemort lines up with his entrance. Harry sinks back down onto him, enjoying the fullness once more. The barely there sting of too much, too deep, yes, please, yes. His hands on Voldemort's chest, Harry raises up and down on him, gasping for breath. Voldemort grabs his hips and helps his set a good pace, thrusting up to meet him. It's not enough. Harry wants the same near brutal roughness of before, but within minutes his thighs are already shaking from the effort. This isn't like riding a broom, and Harry is not strong enough to set the pace he needs. The pace he wants.

As if privy to his thoughts, a likely possibility considering he still has a horcrux in his scar, Voldemort flips them over so Harry is pressed against the robes on the ground. He spares only a moment for a surprisingly tender kiss before he sets a brutal pace, slamming in and out in deep sharp thrusts. Harry clings to him for dear life, legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his strong shoulders. He can't help the way his nails drag across his shoulders, though Voldemort doesn't protest, if anything fucking him harder at the painful scratch of his nails. Voldemort keeps his hands on his hips, fingers so tight bruises are guarenteed, chest to Harry's chest, his face buried in his neck. Panting and murmuring soft whispered praises into his ear in a mix of parseltongue and english.

Yes. More. Please. Harry's own lips spill out traitorous breathy whispers, pleas for more, his name a desperate lusty whine. Voldemort. Voldemort. Voldemort. Please. Please. Please.

Harry turns his head to give the dark lord better access to his throat, which he immediately turns to kiss and bite, and his eyes once again land on the battle waging at his behest.

How many people are dying as he lays under the dark lord? Friends, family, and foe all dying as he is pleasured by his enemy. Maybe they will all die in the raging fire. Maybe he can forget everything but the Dark lord fucking him deep and desperate,  whispering to him.

Fuck.

He's such a fucking pathetic horrible person. He's just a slut, abandoning his friends, his family, his beliefs, for pleasure he doesn't deserve. There are tears on his face. A sob wrenches out from his lips.

Voldemort growls against his throat and turns his head back to face him. "They don't deserve your tears." He pulls Harry in for a brutal kiss. "They don't deserve your guilt. Think only of me."

Voldemort thrusts hard and unrelenting into him, heat coilling in Harry's chest and abdomen as he kisses him through the desperate fucking, more panting into his mouth than an actual kiss. They do deserve his sadness, but...

But...

...but...

"I don't want to die." He gasps out before he can stop himself from voicing the fear. Voldemort thrust particularly hard, deep, grinding into him as he archs up, gasping, on the verge of more tears.

Voldemort reaches down and grasps his member. "You won't. _You are mine_." He promises, their lips brushing with every world like a kiss. "Mine. You chose me, my equal. You don't get to walk away. Stay with me, and you don't have to fear."

Yours. Yours. Yours. Maybe if he thinks hard enough Voldemort will hear him. This is fucked up. The world burns beyond the forest, magical blood christening the ground of Hogwarts, death and destruction at his fingertips. All he has to do is die. Selfish, selfish, selfish. All he has to do is let Voldemort wrap his hands around his throat and squeeze. A curse from his lips. All he has to do is die.

"Please." He gasps, tightening his hold on the dark lord. "Yours."

There is no turning back from that word. It's an acceptance. With one word he is betraying everyone and everything he knows. Voldemort has won.

" _Mine_." Voldemort hisses.

"Mine." Harry claims.

"Yours." He dips down for a kiss. "I'll _cherish_ you. _Worship_ you. Come my love, my equal, my chosen. Come for me."

Harry comes for the second time with Voldemort's name on his lips. Voldemort fucks him through the orgasm again, but doesn't stop when he stops shaking. Each thrust is borderline painful, overstimulation leaving him extra sensitive. He doesn't last long afterwards, burying himself deep into Harry. He can feel the dark lord's seed inside him, perverse warmth. He doesn't pull out yet, choosing instead to kiss Harry almost desperately.

They lay there for several minutes, enjoying the afterglow and making out lazily, but soon it becomes impossible to ignore the battle waging just beyond the trees. Screams and explosions loud and urgent in the distance. Voldemort groans as he pulls away, and Harry moans as he feels the soft member leave his stated body. Voldemort dresses in his clothes and Harry watches with appreciation, lazily lying on the soft heavy fabric of his robes.

"As much as I enjoy the view, you can't go back to the battlefield like that." Voldemort says as he buttons his shirt. "Not to mention I do not have your refractory period. I need at least thirty minutes before I'd be ready to fuck you again. You're making it extremely difficult to convince me to go end the battle instead of staying here with you until I can take you again."

Harry laughs. "I can't move."

"You didn't even try." Voldemort teases.

Voldemort chuckles and pulls him to his feet. Harry feels like his legs are made of Jello, a sensation that doesn't disperse when he's pulled into a kiss that is far too intimate. He trails a finger across his cheeks, his lips, and Harry shivers.

"So tempting my chosen." He dips in for a kiss, a brush of lips really. "Get dressed." Voldemort commands and Harry pulls on his dirty clothes as he watches.

He feels Voldemort's spunk on his thighs against the rough fabric of his jeans. "I need a shower." He 

"When was the last time you had a shower?" He asks, no doubt curious about Harry's homeless appearance, grimy in a way cleaning charms couldn't fix.

Harry laughs. "Before we went to hunt for the Horcruxes." He admits. "So around July."

"That was nearly a year ago." Voldemort runs his fingers through his hair. "We are going to go fix this mess and send everyone home. Afterwards, you and I are going to go to my home."

"You mean Malfoy's home?" Harry grins cheekily.

"Semantics." Voldemort pulls him close. "Then we are taking a shower, and we'll eat something. After dinner I'm going to drag you into the room I stole from Lucius, and I will bury you in the silk sheets and make you forget everything but my name. I want them to be horrified to look at you at breakfast tomorrow morning, knowing that you spent the night in my bed."

He shivers with delight and desire. "Sounds like a good plan."

He follows Voldemort out of the forest. It's still not perfect. Harry still hasn't told him he's a horcrux, the battle is probably still long from over, but he finds himself concidering Dumbledore. After all, Dumbledore did think he could defeat Voldemort with love, for all that he raised him to be martyred.

Does he love Voldemort? No... but he can. He could learn to. Would it be such a bad price, to end the war as equals, partners. A Compromise.

Can Voldemort love him? Probably not. But he can cherish him, he can lust for him, obsess over him, worship him, just as he said. He doesn't need love. Harry has enough love in his heart for both of them.


End file.
